


Anointed

by Pyracantha



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 05:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21131249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyracantha/pseuds/Pyracantha
Summary: Crowley's been growing it out because he cannot stop thinking of his flame coloured hair dipped in oil dragging slowly down Aziraphale’s body. Seeing his hair, lips, chest, shining with oil. Consecration.





	Anointed

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this image out of my head so I had to write it down. I also love these lines from a Mary Oliver poem 'Mysteries, Yes'.
> 
> 'How two hands touch and the bonds will  
never be broken.  
How people come, from delight or the  
scars of damage-'  
I have updated the format on this to make it easier to read as well as just rewriting a bit of the first chapter. Chapter 2 in on the way!

Crowley is watching Aziraphale working. He is wholly concentrating on his task. His fingers deft and gentle as he remakes the book in his hands. He gives it his entire attention, gentle fingers on the fragile pages. It makes Crowley’s stomach flip to think of the same hands and attention on his face, his body. He knows, has known, since the notpocolypse that he’s free to look and see and even, he thinks maybe ask? for some of that attention to be paid to him.

He’s had an image in his head for millennia. It pops up in moments like these. Quiet moments. Still moments. He sees Aziraphale before him, laid out like feast, while he slowly anoints him. Crowley knows that Aziraphale prefers his hair longer and he’s been growing it out because he cannot stop thinking of his flame coloured hair dipped in oil dragging slowly down Aziraphale’s body. Seeing his hair, lips, chest, shining with oil. Consecration. He generally associates the word with pain and honestly in this case it is like a knife-edge between desire & disquiet. He wants to sanctify this sublime being who contains so much love for him. It’s almost unbelievable still. He has been coming to grips with his own feelings being returned and it still threatens to bring him to his knees when he allows himself to look at it clearly. Maybe that’s why he thinks of this exaltation.

Aziraphale looks up as if he can feel Crowley’s watching eyes. He smiles radiantly.

“How long have you been there?” he asks.

“Just long enough, angel. Fancy a break?” Crowley tilts his head towards the couch. They are still tentative with each other in some ways. Their routines are still much the same, shop business, drinks, dinners, but the time spent talking and laughing contains small sweet things. Hand touches, arm grabbing, sitting much closer than they used to. Other times it’s gentle kisses that turn deep, hands sliding, feeling the heart he doesn’t need hammer with anticipation or release. Having that calm, beautiful attention focused on him is transcendent. It’s holy. He loves to hear Aziraphale breathe his name like a prayer. It’s overwhelming and terrifying and ecstatic all at once. It’s like his body has been electrified. Every touch a master class in agony and ecstasy. It’s no wonder he wants to mark him as what? His? He can’t stop thinking about it.

Aziraphale sets his work aside and comes over to where Crowley is sitting on the sofa. He sits down and opens his arms. Crowley settles into his lap like a cat his hair spilling out over Aziraphale's thighs. Aziraphale sighs and begins carding his fingers through the copper strands.

“It’s gotten so long my dear. I always did like it long.”

Crowley blushes thinking of about all the things he’s like to do with this long hair.

“Angel do you… did you ever…” he stops exasperated with himself.

“Did I what dear?” Aziraphale hears the hesitation and lets the quiet expectation spool out. 

Crowley sighs and leans up to kiss his pink mouth. Aziraphale smiles into the kiss. He keeps his hands in Crowley’s hair. Slowly they deepen the kiss until Crowley is half sitting up with a fistful of Aziraphale’s shirt. Aziraphale’s hands in his hair are carefully pulling his head back for better access to Crowley’s throat. Crowley shudders and breaks the kiss without moving away, crowding himself into Aziraphale as he struggles to ask for what he wants. Aziraphale softens his hands in his hair, moves to gently stroke his face.

“Tell me what you need, love.”

And damn if that doesn’t short circuit Crowley's brain. Love is a new endearment and one he’ll horde until the end of time. Looking into Aziraphale’s storm coloured eyes he feels like a cherished book being remade.

“Can we move this conversation to the bedroom?” Crowley asks.

“Of course” and with a snap they are in the bedroom of Aziraphale’s flat.

It’s like a book dragon’s lair. A veritable hoard of books too precious to put on the shelves. The bed is a nest of cozy blankets and pillows. Aziraphale loves to lounge around with a good book. Sleep may be a waste of time but the accouterments are lovely. No sense being uncomfortable, as he likes to say.

“Much better” Crowley sighs. Aziraphale is now sitting up at the head of the bed and Crowley is mostly in his lap. Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face.

“You are so beautiful angel. It makes me…”

Again he can’t finish his sentence. He leans in and kisses Aziraphale with a reverence that, had he not known Crowley so well, would have been surprising. They press together softly. Feeling Aziraphale’s body beneath him dispels any remaining embarrassment and Crowley finally asks

“Do you trust me?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley sees the longing and raw devotion in his eyes.

“Always dearest”.

Crowley leans in and kisses him again.


End file.
